


Final Hours Filled with Flowers

by AmateurScribes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Emetophobia, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Isolation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Spoilers, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Volleyball Gang, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-03 03:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurScribes/pseuds/AmateurScribes
Summary: Grif could handle the separation between the gang, well enough- it's what he wanted after all. He's done being their punching bag, dragged against his will to get shot at and get nothing good in return.The pain in his chest means nothing when he's faced with the prospect of finally being free to do what he wants.But then the pain begins to blossom and become a hell of a lot harder to ignore.Goddammit.





	1. A Shift in the Soil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, this is the longest thing I've written to date, so for the sake of it, I separated it into two chapters. I'm so glad that it's finally finished! I'll have more to talk about the content of the fic at the end, because oh boy do I have _a lot _of things to say. Big thanks to my beta for this fic: stickynotedoodler on Tumblr! I hope y'all enjoy the story!__

Every step that he took made him feel as though there were weights crushing him, trying to stop him by pulverizing him into the sand beneath his boots. His grip tightened against his DMR, right now it was about the only thing grounding him in the present.

Every muscle was wound up tight, as he tried not to listen to the small voice in his head telling him to turn around and hide in his cave. That if he did that he wouldn't have to confront his issues, that if he just dug his head in the sand and refused to address anything then _everything_ would be fine.

But Grif was tired of hiding, he was tired of avoiding his emotions. But most of all- he was tired of fighting.

That resolve is what made him push forward, moving closer and closer to the gang that was steadily getting bigger as he approached them. As the distance closed, the small voice in his head blared all his self-preservation alarms as it tried to make him back out of his decision as the voice went from panicked to pure desperation as it tried to convince him to change his mind before it was too late.

Grif ignored it, even as he was greeted by Wash's terse, "Look who's finally graced us with his presence!"

He wouldn't let any of their insults pressure him to relent. He wasn't going with them.

The whole conversation that resulted was tiring, but it was exactly what he needed to convince the small voice in his head that this is what he wanted- what he needed. He was sick and tired of all of their bullcrap- their insults, the degrading comments, the lack of choice that _he_ gets to make when it came to getting pulled along with every fucking adventure they went on.

He was done; he quit.

He speaks from the heart when he bites out, "I don't like you."

And he continues to speak from the heart when he follows it with, "Any of you."

He's hoping to have the last word when he turns around and walks back to where he came from- back to the cave where no one would find him, where no one would look for him.

He can't hear what Sarge is saying from behind, there's a buzzing wall of noise that's building up and rattling around in his skull. But he's sure that whatever Sarge is saying is just as biting as any other insult he's delivered over the years to Grif.

He has to think about walking forward- he knows that if he falters for just one second he might turn around and he doesn't know what would happen if he did. The phantom pain of Tucker punching his visor echoes across his body, rattling him. He doesn't want to risk it.

One foot in front of the other, he continues to walk. He doesn't want to run, but even if he did, he doesn't think that he has the energy to do so. So walking it is.

A pain begins to blossom in his chest as he walks.

He doesn't admit it- he wouldn't admit it because that'd be a weakness on his part- but he was hoping that maybe at least Simmons would run up to him to stop him.

* * *

The pains in his chest don't go away when he collapses in his cave to choke on his tears and screams, and it certainly doesn't go away when he watches everyone leave on the only modes of transportation off the moon.

He's heard of people dying from literal heartbreak but he doesn't think for a second that that's what's happening to him. He always thought his heart had frozen over years ago anyway.

It's quiet on the moon for the next few days. The sounds of his boots echoing across the empty base got to him during the first few hours- he'd look behind him expecting to see Caboose walking through the hallways, looking for one of the other guys for some reason, one too many times.

He's forced to remove his armor by the end of the first day.

Even without his armor, he'd expected a great weight to be lifted off of his shoulders, the weight of his armor had been a burden to have for the past few years, but if anything it'd made the pressure from the air on the moon all that much harder to bare.

He doesn't have the strength to put it back on.

That fucking pain in his chest kept growing outwards, never subsiding. It felt like there was a small stone weighing down his lungs. It got annoying the longer it stayed, and it caused Grif to sway from the pain.

Nothing made it better. Not the shitty medicine that they had shared amongst the two bases could do anything to make the pain lesson, at most it gave him a headache. He'd been half tempted to just down the whole bottle of pills in one go if it could make that fucking pressure leave his lungs. But he knew better, his mind would flash back to images of Kai hunched over a toilet bowl heaving her guts out while he shakily yelled at the operator of Poison Control.

There was no one to worry about him like that, and he was far from suicidal.

For a brief moment, he fancied the idea that the Methshrooms could relive the tensions just a little bit, he could handle a high if it meant that he could be without pain for just a moment. However it backfired on him just as quickly as it had given him release, the effects of the Shrooms left him breathless, choking on nothing as he struggled to take in a breath. The tears brought to his eyes burned, and his knuckles whitened from how hard he was ripping at the grass beneath his fists.

He was turned off from eating the Shrooms ever again after that instance.

As hours turned into days and soon into a week of isolation, the pain had grown from a small annoyance to searing- almost piercing his lungs.

He grit his teeth when he woke up every day, now having to wait for the pain to subside just a fraction before he could even get out of his bed.

The first few hours of his isolation he almost ate all of the food in the Red Team fridge, only stopping when the pressure in his chest caused him to throw up. From then on even if he rationed the food like the military would he would throw it up later on in the day, the only thing he could stomach any more was a bite- maybe two or three if he was lucky.

His nerves were shot to hell and back, he couldn't eat so he turned to his other habit- smoking. The second he took a single huff from the cigarette he started coughing and couldn't stop for almost half an hour. He dropped his cigarette in his panic, both hands grasping at his mouth trying to stifle the coughing. The cigarette and his whole pack of cigarettes for that matter, were long forgotten by the time his airways cleared.

That was the worst thing about that fucking mysterious pain, it took away from him the two things he loved to do in the world; eating and smoking.

The fantasy of a quiet retirement on the moon burned away loudly when he started coughing daily.

After the first week of hell, Grif thought that nothing could get worse than the chronic pain in his chest. Unfortunately the pain had transformed itself into violent coughing fits that wouldn't stop for minutes at a time, with only an hour or two of reprieve before the next one started up.

The coughing hurt and it didn't feel like any normal cough that he'd gotten when he had a cold. It felt like there was something stuck in the back of his throat that was trying to claw its way out.

He couldn't have been more right when the coughing started becoming accompanied by a small trickle of blood out of his mouth.

These coughing fits usually made him fall to his knees in intensity, hands clasped tightly over his mouth muffling his hacking while his eyes clenched in pain. The entire time the attack happened he couldn't even think, it hurt so much. But when the coughs started to quiet down and his shoulders stopped shaking from the pain he wedged his eyes open, blurry from the tears that drenched his cheeks. It took him a while to notice the blood that had smeared across his mouth, it had blended into his kevlar gloves and had been tinted by the concrete as he struggled to pull himself up.

He staggered as he rose, before collapsing against the wall. The wall became his crutch as he pulled himself towards the nearest sink, needing to wash his mouth of the gunk that had built up in it. He stumbled into the bathroom and grabbed the rim of the sink, breathing heavily as he took a moment to catch his breath. Without looking up, he turned on the sink and didn't waste a single thought to taking off his gloves as he cupped his hands under the stream of water. He rose his hands to his lips but stopped when he saw traces of red in the water.

He separated his hands, letting the water fall back into the ceramic basin. At first, he thought that it was rust from the pipes, but then his eyes slowly wandered up to the mirror. Through the strands of tangled, stringy hair he could see the blood smears that decorated his face. Just the sight of his current condition almost had him lapsing into another attack by the sheer force of shaking that racked his body.

He stumbled out of the bathroom, almost collapsing as he wondered just what the fuck was going on with him.

* * *

Somewhere by the end of the second week that small voice in his head had returned with a vengeance.

It mocked him and his current state, it very nearly made him regret his decision.

And somewhere along the way it splintered into sharp jagged pieces, an amalgamation of voices all screaming at him and his incompetence.

* * *

He could safely put the blame on Doc for his shattered fantasy. Almost.

He was well beyond sick of that fucking pain and the fucking voices that criticized his every fucking action. The anger from the voices brought him straight into another coughing fit, he had tried to yell at them but his raspy voice made him pause and start to cough. And when he started coughing, he just couldn't stop.

Collapsing onto his knees, as per his new normal, he just took the brunt of the fit until it just fucking stopped already. He was ready to just suffer through another thirty minutes of hell but this fit was different. It didn't nearly last as long as the others and dare he say it but it was almost quick. It was still as painful as the others, but the fact that it didn't last as long made him think that whatever fucking spell that had taken over his body for the past two weeks was finally starting to go away.

It was with great joy that he opened his eyes after it was dispelled, but he lost it just as quick when he saw the single bloodied yellow petal that was sitting in his hands.

"What the fuck," he rasped out in fear.

He blinked a few times, hoping that he was just imagining it.

It was still there.

Shaking, he reached out with his right hand to pick up the petal, marveling at it. The voices in his heads quieted, their usual cacophony of comments dwindling until one broke free of the rest, becoming loud and clear.

_The symptoms all add up, Grif. You should really seek medical help from a professional!_

He narrowed his eyes at the clarity of the voice. He looked towards his left to see the closet that was hardly used during the entire teams stay on the moon. He crawled over to it, reaching up halfheartedly towards the handle, grabbing it with bloody hands and tearing the door open with such fervor that a volleyball from the top shelf bounced down to where he knelt on the ground.

Still holding the petal, he glared down at the volleyball- one of many that were still propped up in the closet next to cans of assorted paints.

Perfect.

* * *

The voice that he could now identify as Doc wanted him to seek medical attention, right? Well then who better- well not better per se but perhaps the only one available- to get advice from than the one who suggested it first.

Doc was sloppily painted and he didn't care about how sideways the gold foil was when he slapped it onto the volleyball with some tape. It didn't need to look good, it just had to do its fucking job.

"Ok, look Doc, I would never come to you for help if I didn't absolutely need it, but there's no way for me to consult Grey on Chorus or literally anyone else. You'll just have to do for now, ok?" Grif asked with his slightly raspy voice. He was seated leaning against the legs of the chair, he couldn't bother to pull himself up onto when making Doc.

Doc was seated on Grif's lap and the voice that he was just starting to recognize as Donut's giggled in his head about how 'scandalous' it could look if someone walked in on them. But nobody would actually fucking walk into the room so Grif didn't fucking care and just ignored Donut.

 _Well this is a surprise!_ , Doc said. Despite the fact that it didn't have a mouth, Grif could swear that it was actually speaking to him- he could hear Doc's voice reverberate around the empty base and he almost cried at the fact that he wasn't alone anymore. But he didn't because there was a reason for Doc being here and he was going to get his fucking answers even if it killed off the last bit of his sanity.  _You didn't have to wait so long to get my professional opinion on this matter, Grif_ , Doc tsked.

"Doc, all I'm going to ask you to do is tell me what the fuck is going on with me," Grif stressed. In his right hand, the original yellow petal had been joined by two others after he had an attack mid-making Doc. Bringing his shaking fist close to Doc's visor he unclenched it slowly revealing the petals to the volleyball. "Why am I coughing up flowers, what the fuck is going on with me?"

 _Well, now that's concerning!_ , Doc worried. _Fortunately for you, Grif, I know exactly why that's happening to you!_

"Why," Grif whispered. He clutched at the volleyball, the petals falling onto his lap in favor of taking a hold of Doc, smearing blood on it. "Doc, please, what is this," he croaked.

 _I'm not surprised that you don't know what this is_ , Doc answered. _It's a very hush-hush disease and the UNSC has been keeping this under wraps for years. Deleting medical records and watching out for any media that tries to report on this. Thankfully, I was well versed in recognizing these symptoms- it was part of my training as a medic after all!_

"Just fucking tell me already," Grif tried to yell but coughed a little bit at the end, frightening him and causing him to hold on tightly to Doc. When another attack didn't happen he sighed in relief, but then Doc's voice broke out against the silence.

 _This disease is so rare that it doesn't even have a medical name_ , Doc timidly answered. _But a few of the originally recorded cases of it were from Japan. The disease is said to have festered upon unrequited feelings for other people, manifesting itself in the physical form of flowers that grow in your lungs. The process is very, very painful from what the reports say. Locals used to call the disease Han-_

Doc's voice was drowned out by the return of the voices talking over each other and white noise as Grif just stared listlessly at the wall. He didn't need to hear the rest of what Doc said, it probably wasn't important and he had said the only things that he needed to hear.

Unrequited feelings.

Even when another wave of coughing washed over him he didn't even react to it, letting it consume him.

A petal fluttered down onto his lap next to the others. Next to the other physical proof that he didn't belong with the Reds and the Blues- that they didn't like him, probably never have.

Proof that he didn't belong with them. Belong with Simmons.

Proof that he didn't belong anywhere.

* * *

The days began to blur together. Sometime after finishing Doc and getting sick and tired of the voices in his heads, he made volleyball versions of the rest of the gang.

He wouldn't call what they said to him as malicious but the lines between playful banter and pure insults had long since been mucked up for him. When Simmons complained about the state of the base, calling it a pigsty he didn't refute it.

The base was a sight for sore eyes, littered with trash bags and wrecked furniture from when the gang had been there. His 'condition', as he was calling it, hadn't made things any better. Flower petals began to litter the floor of the base and droplets of blood could be found periodically on the ground or smeared in the walls of the base.

He had never been bothered by his own messy habits, and for the first two weeks without the gang, he had finally gained peace and quiet about it. But now that the gang was back, he could feel their none existent eyes on him as he roamed the hallways. He felt an itch in his hands to clean up the mess that he had made. That coupled with Simmons' comments about the disgustingness of it all was what finally made him pick up cleaning supplies.

He threw out all of the trash and put it properly into the waste disposal units that they had used when they originally settled on the moon but had become swiftly forgotten. Taking a broom, he swept up all the stray petals. Then he had scrubbed at the floors and walls until they were fucking cleaner than they had been before their settlement. He deftly ignored Donut's comment about Grif staying up until the base shined like the top of the Chrysler building.

His hands started to burn and blister due to his allergy to most cleaning supplies but he ignored the pain in favor of making Simmons shut up about the state of the base.

He thought that if he did this for Simmons, maybe Simmons would finally like him and then the pain would stop. But when he turned to look at him, Simmons just latched onto the next thing to gripe about, and his hands continued to throb in pain.

He only went to tend to them after Doc's persistence on getting it treated.

* * *

Originally he had kept all the volleyballs in Red Base, but he couldn't stand Tuckers whining or Caboose's nonsensical rambling that he had all the Blues moved to Blue Base where he couldn't hear or look at them. He was reluctant to touch Church, his silence unnerved him most of all, but he swallowed it like a bitter pill and just stuck him with the other Blues and left it at that. He heard it smack against something hard, but just shrugged it off and went to Red Base.

The Reds he could handle on a good day, but on the days where his coughing had sentenced him to a day of bedrest was when their voices went from being separated to becoming a collective of disappointment again. Across from him on the bed, Doc looked at him pitifully.

 _You know_ , Doc started curiously. _You should really look up what type of flowers those petals come from. You never know, it might just help you!_

Grif shut his eyes, curling into himself. He draped his arms across his chest as if to stop the pain.

 _C'mon, Grif_ , Doc said. _You should do something to distract yourself from the pain! And if that means going to Donuts room to read some of his botany books then you should do it. Or maybe you could take up something like pilates or yoga!_

At that Grif groaned and got up, knowing that Doc would persist if he didn't. He tried to minimize the amount that he moved, in attempt to lessen the tension in his chest.

He shuffled towards Donut’s room, opening the door slowly and taking in the immaculate room. Shortly after he finished cleaning the base itself, he focused on the individual rooms to organize them. His usual love for chaotic messes had been destroyed after listening to one of Doc's lectures about how a messy base could lead to his condition worsening. He found that he couldn't say 'no' to anyone lately.

Holding onto Doc with both hands he moved towards Donut's bookshelf, skimming the titles of the books and magazines until he reached a book that seemed to be an encyclopedia on flowers. He settled himself onto Donut's bed, sinking into it and placing Doc next to him. Leafing through the book to see if he could recognize the petals, he didn't need to have one with him to cross reference- he had practically memorized their look by now.

Flipping the page his eyes landed on a flower that looked to be a near perfect match for the petals. During one particularly bad attack he had coughed up more than just a few petals, it was almost like he coughed up the entire flower minus stem. What he had stared at horrifically that day was what was pictured in the book currently in his lap.

His eyes strayed up to the name, but froze and lingered there for a while before he started to skim through the article about it. His fingers tightened on the pages, wrinkling them in a way that he knew would make Donut upset later. When he got to the part that explained some of the meanings the flower could represent, his body flinched as though lightening raced through his veins.

 _Narcissus flowers._ He didn't need the book to tell him that they meant _selfishness_ though, he knew enough about mythology to make a fucking guess about it.

Tucker's words from when he quit rattled around in his head loudly piercing his thoughts as he nearly tore the page out of the book from anger.

_"Seriously, dude?! You've always been selfish, but this is bullshit!"_

He doesn't know how he got up or why but he stood in anger, chucking the book at the wall causing a spiderweb of cracks to break out from the plaster from the blunt force of the throw.

"Is that what this shit is all about," he yells out in anger. "Some sort of karmic punishment for being a fucking selfish bastard! Well, I learned my fucking lesson already, why won't it fucking stop! I GET IT, OK? I GET THAT I SHOULD HAVE GONE TO HELP CHURCH, STOP PUNISHING ME ALREADY!" He screamed at the ceiling of the base. He wasn't sure who he was calling out to- the others, God, or some higher entity, it didn't matter as long as they stopped the fucking pain.

Even now he could feel his body shaking- from exhaustion, from anger, from the fucking _pain_ \- but that didn't matter because that was his new normal now wasn't it.

In the background, he can hear Doc call out to him telling him that he might spurn on another attack, but he's just caught up in his rage that he can't even feel his fist clench tight against the top of the volleyball.

A loud pop and the sharp hiss of air break through his veil of loathing, making him glance down to the volleyball in his grasp.

"FUCK," he yells as he releases it, the air coming out faster now. The ball is quickly deflating, the face of Doc crumbling with it.

"No, no no no this-this isn't happening, this is NOT happening!" he whispers frantically. His hands hover over the fully deflated volleyball, afraid to touch it in case he caused it more damage.

He- he was a murderer! He killed Doc- he- he... His thoughts drowned out the yelling of the other guys calling him a killer for destroying Doc.

"No- no this is, this is just Doc disappearing like he always does," Grif reasoned, lightly yanking on some of his hair. "Yeah, good-ol Doc, disappearing and leaving us like he always does. Totally normal Doc behavior," he muttered.

He repeated it to himself until he could completely ignore the destroyed Doc and he could leave the room without turning back to it.

He repeated it enough that he completely forgot the whole altercation altogether only remembering the find of just what type of flower that had taken up residence in his lungs.

Distantly he wondered where Doc had wandered off too but didn't question it much when he reasoned that Doc would show up again eventually.

* * *

He had forgotten how nice it could be to have actual human company since he was left alone on the moon, even if it was the company of Locus.

He'd become rather obsessed over the past week to gain the approval of the Volleyball Gang because maybe he didn't need the real versions of the guys to be cured, maybe he could earn it in the form of substitutions. Well, it made complete sense in his head at least.

All he had to do was make up for his mistakes- clear his conscience and be forgiven for being so completely and utterly selfish.

Every chance he got, he tried to appease the volleyballs, but for every good that he did they usually would find something else to bitch about. There was no escape because he had to _try_ , he had nothing left for him if he didn't.

The coughing had gotten much worse. There were times where he wasn't even sure if he'd ever be able to breathe again. But then his airways would clear and he'd have a pile of petals in front of him, blood dribbling down the corners of his mouth only to be smeared across the back of his hand and his cheek. Then he'd be able to breathe, but only briefly.

Which is why he tried harder and harder and _harder_ to just get them to _like him back for the love of God._

But now Locus was here. With Lopez. And that meant that he could have a completely new attempt at redemption. Locus was his chance at turning over a new leaf- to become a better person that would be more likable to the gang!

He could help save them, and then maybe they'd return the favor.

Distantly his mind wanders onto how Simmons is doing, before being completely derailed when Locus' voice breaks through to him.

"We should go. My ship is ready. Just so you're aware, we're likely in for a fight," Locus admitted. Although Grif couldn't see his eyes, he just knows that Locus is sizing him up, taking in his probably disheveled look.

He almost feels naked, still having not put his armor back on after he first took it off, but he doesn't let his own discomfort get in the way of the mission- that'd be selfish and he wants to be anything _but_ selfish.

With more enthusiasm then he's ever had for anything before in his life- but there was a first time for everything and if he wanted to better himself then he would need to give instead of doing nothing- Grif responded in earnest, "Then there's no time to waste." He can feel eyes on the back of his head and realizes his mistake. "Oh, wait."

Turning towards the volleyballs, Grif looks up at Locus sheepishly. "I can bring the gang, right?"

He wrings his hands together as he sees Locus barely take a glance at them, before shutting down the idea with a tempered, "Absolutely _not_."

Panic flares through him as his eyes dart towards the balls and Locus. "Are you sure," he asks. "Because they won't be a nuisance- promise! I'm sure there's tons of room on your ship right? Maybe? Wait that's not a problem if there isn't I can just hold them! Or I could just-"

"Grif," Locus growls out. "You are not going to bring inanimate objects onto the ship because you don't _need_ them. If anything, they are a danger to your sanity if you have any left," he huffs out.

"They are not coming, this is not up for debate," Locus concludes.

It feels like his heart is beating faster than a bullet train, it doesn't feel like he's getting in enough air. A hand reaches up to tug on an unkempt clump of hair, hair strands tangled together from a lack of care. Truly Grif doesn't know what's getting him all upset. This is what he's wanted, to be reunited with the guys so that he wouldn't have to hang onto those fucking volleyballs like a goddamned lifeline.

But- he hasn't been _without_ them for so long, and they must have been working, right? He hasn't succumbed and hacked his fucking lungs out- maybe that was because of the volleyballs. What if he left them on the moon and on the way to save the guys he ended up dying? He'd be no use to them dead! How would he be able to turn over a new leaf if he choked on his own blood and stupidity and _selfishness-_

Suddenly the world is turning sideways, and the floor is rushing up to meet him. He crashes onto the ground ungracefully and feels his lungs start to constrict in a very familiar way. But that's not important because if he focused on the upcoming attack then that'd be selfish and he just needs _Locus to understand why he needs them-_

"But," he gasps out, eyes clenching. He fists his hand into his flight suit, begging for the fit to not last that long because he needs Locus to understand and they need to save the guys if only he would stop being so fucking _selfish_. "You don't understand," his voice lowers into a raspy whistle, his lungs rattling.

Vaguely he can hear clunking sounds from beside him, and a firm grip on his shoulder but they start to dissipate when the coughing begins. It starts with a pain in his chest and then blooms upwards, a petal lodging itself in his throat where it claws its way out, but not without making it unbearably difficult to dislodge the fucking petal. He can never tell how long these attacks will last, all he knows is that it hurts more and more as time went on.

A metallic tang barrages his taste buds and he can't control the liquid streaming about of his mouth, a mixture of blood and pure drool- he doesn't even want to think about swallowing anything with a petal in the back of his throat.

A pressure appears on his back, and he almost whimpers if it wasn't for the coughing. But it turns out that the pressure isn't the kind of pressure he's feeling on his chest at the moment, this one is gentle and almost relaxing. He melts into the touch, having been without this kind of comfort for far too fucking long. The coughing doesn't seem too bad and when he can feel at least three petals in his mouth he knows that it won't be too long before the coughing starts to let up.

He spits the petals out, coughing slightly, and his eyes blearily look down at the mess he made on the floor. In the back of his head, he can hear Simmons complaining about how he can't stop making messes, and how he should clean it up before it developed its own microbial culture.

Grif struggles for a minute with his hearing, but he can hear a voice in the background proclaiming, "¡Alarma! ¿Qué está pasando? ¿Lo mataste?" _Alarm! What is happening? Did you kill him?_

"He is alright, now would you be _quiet,_ " a voice to the side of him barked. The first voice didn't respond, meaning that he probably followed the instructions of the second voice.

He- he was doing something before the attack, something important, something that he couldn't leave unsolved-

As his eyes cleared up the first thing he saw was the volleyballs a few feet in front of him, their backs turned towards him.

"I _need_ them, I have to get them to like me," he mumbled through his numb mouth.

It takes another minute or so before he has any sort of proper bearings of his surroundings. To the side of him is Locus, who at some point had taken off his helmet. Locus' eyes were a cool kind of grey, and right now they looked at Grif's face as if it could give him the answer to life, the universe, and just about fucking everything.

"How long... has this been going on," Locus asked. His expression didn't change from its stonewalled look, and some part of Grif's brain that was more lucid than the other parts took notice of the scared 'x' on Locus' face.

"I don't..." a pause, "...I don't know," he answered honestly.

The thing is, he doesn't know how long he's had this disease, or whatever the fuck it is, inside him. It could have been something native to the moon or maybe it's something that he's just always been carrying within him dormant and then stress and his selfishness made it awaken. All he knows is that it makes no scientific fucking sense, and it sure as hell hurts like a bitch.

Locus' expression melds into something kinder for a brief second before returning to its natural form. "I'm going to help you up now and you're going to direct me to where you have left your power armor," he says.

Grif just nods his head. It doesn't even comprehend in his mind that he has just given someone who could still possibly be an enemy a prime weakness to exploit and kill him with. He doesn't even care anymore.

He's just so... tired.

Locus loops one of his arms across Grif's back and then heaves him upwards, becoming the full support for Grif, as his nearly lifeless body just dangles under Locus' superior strength.

Locus looks imploringly at Grif and he can't even bother to be snarky or even display any of his usual traits. He just complies and points towards the hallway in the base that leads to his room.

"That way," he mutters.

Locus doesn't respond, but they move forward and then there's silence between the two. The silence unnerves Grif, it reminds him too much of just how alone he really is on the moon. Even even he knows that noise can't be present always, especially after one of those fucking coughing fits. If he still thought of himself as the old Grif, maybe he'd complain about how life just wasn't fucking fair, but this new Grif that he's become knows that life is fair- it's fair to those who deserve it.

And evidently, he does not deserve it.

So the silence is only broken when Grif mutters out one-word directions to Locus.

When they reach Grif's room, Locus carries him and settles him down on the bed. In the corner of his room lies the orange power armor that he had abandoned so quickly as if the very thing was fire on his skin.

Locus walks towards it and picks up the two cuissess. He turns towards Grif and closes the distance between them.

"Are able to put this on yourself, or will you require me to do it?" There's no judgment in Locus' voice, but the situation is embarrassing as is.

He doesn't need to add on any more humiliation to the never-ending list he's accumulated over the years.

"I can do it," he answers. Because it's not a lie, he really can. It will take time however, time they probably don't have in excess of.

But Locus doesn't point this out and simply nods his head, handing over the pieces of armor in his hands to the orange SIM Trooper.

Grif tentatively takes it from the ex-merc and Locus turns back towards the pile, bringing over the parts of the power armor one by one. Once Grif has all the pieces next to him on the bed, he begins to suit up.

The process is slow and takes far too much longer than he'd like, but Locus says and does nothing, simply waiting by his side in case he has any difficulties.

Grif stares at his helmet, it's shiny visor starring back up at him and he hates that it reflects just how much of a fucking mess that he's become. No wonder the gang didn't like him, he was a walking human disaster.

He wonders what putting this helmet on would mean. Probably meant killing someone.

He puts on the helmet anyways.

* * *

The energy that he had lost comes back to him once they boarded Locus' ship, volleyballs in tow. The second go around, Locus didn't deny him bringing them on board. He didn't ask for a reason and Grif supposed he didn't need one.

There was something nagging at the back of Grif's thoughts about the whole encounter that they shared. Locus had reacted to Grif having a freak out and then coughing up petals remarkably well. Sure it could be blamed on Locus' sociopathic nature, but Grif knows that that's bullshit. Seeing someone cough up petals was _not_ a normal occurrence, no matter how much it had transformed into Grif's new normal. Locus should be naturally freaked out and disgusted even.

Grif knows that he sure is.

Locus' ship is nice and bright, practically glowing with colors that flared up as if they had a heartbeat. Which they just might, after all, it was an alien ship. Who was Grif to judge on what constituted as alive or not when it involved aliens?

Weirdly enough, at the dashboard of the ship lies a dried up plant. The color has long since faded, and at the furthest end of the stem lay a bunch of crinkled up flower buds, only the faintest glimmer of yellow as the petals had.

His eyes don't stray away from the uprooted plant, fixated on that one point as something begins to uncurl at the base of his chest.

Locus must have noticed his starring, but he doesn't reprimand him for it or even turn away from the screen he'd preoccupied himself with.

Grif is tempted to touch the flower, just to make sure that it's real and that he's not hallucinating again. But he doesn't want to ruin it, clearly, it must mean something to Locus, why else would he carry a memento with him?

"Common rue," Locus supplies. Grif turns slightly towards him, breaking eye contact with the flower. "The symptoms first appeared when I left Chorus, from there after recognizing the pain I went to see a doctor. The surgery lasted 24-hours, and I had to be put under due to the intensity of it."

Grif imagines what that must have looked like to a doctor; having a patient come in needing surgery to get rid of plants that were growing inside the patient's body. He can see Grey having a field-day performing that kind of surgery, but any normal doctor? Grif doesn't want to imagine what that kind of fear would look like on a professional.

"The doctor's silence had to be bought, but in the end it was successful. The flowers were all uprooted, there can't be any trace left in your system or it will grow back." Locus looked up from the screen eyes distant. "Not only did the pain cease, but so did... certain feelings. I've looked at UNSC records since then, that's the 'price' for having them removed, you remove the feelings as well."

Shaking his head, Locus turns his attention towards the dried up flower. "Of course, emotions like those are not useful in a soldier." Looking away, his voice almost sounds softer. "But just getting rid of the flowers themselves seemed wrong. They now serve as a reminder," he paused briefly, "of what I am to now do with my existence."

Grif has nothing to say in response, simply soaking in the information.

"Narcissus; selfishness," is the only response Grif can mutter.

"Common rue; repentance," Locus exchanges.

"You are lucky," Locus muses. "That whatever plant that ails you is not deadly. Common rue is quite... toxic," one of his hands snakes up to ghost over his throat.

Silence hangs heavy in the air as Grif hears the echo of a different orange soldiers screams, the scene playing out in his mind as clearly as when _he_ was blasted off the cliff.

* * *

"There wouldn't be enough time for you to get your own surgery."

He knows this.

"I know."

But it doesn't matter.

"Do you really?"

Silence.

"Yes."

Because that'd be selfish of him.

* * *

It's when they're nearing the atmosphere of the planet that Locus turns his full focus on Grif now that he actually had some semblance of attention from Grif.

"How do you know about the disease?" There's no threat to Locus' words but the way that he delivers them gives the question an air of suspicion to them. "The UNSC has kept it tight under lock and key, with very few authorized personnel being allowed to look at the files. Taking this into consideration, it makes no logical sense for you to even have an understanding of what's happening to you."

That makes him bite the inside of his cheek. He has the answer but he doesn't know how much of it Locus would be willing to believe. But the way Locus' visor hasn't moved away from him, he knows that he's going to have to answer.

"Doc told me," Grif answers honestly.

"Doc," Locus repeats. "You mean your volleyball imitation of your medic?" His visor tilts towards where Grif had settled the volleyballs for the duration of the trip.

"Well, yes," Grif ducks his head slightly. He sees where Locus' train of thought is going. In his more lucid moments, he realizes that he shouldn't know that kind of information even for his imitations of the guys. Doc wouldn't even know that kind of information, or at least if he did he sure as hell wouldn't tell it to Grif. But he must have heard it somewhere for it to have been stored in his subconscious. He just doesn't know _when_ or _where_ he could have.

Locus stares at him for a few more seconds, likely waiting for him to change his alibi, but when a new answer doesn't come he simply shakes his head. In an exasperated tone, he addressed the elephant in the room, "You are a dead-man walking right now."

Tensing his shoulders, Grif responds tersely. "You don't need to remind me about that, Locus."

"That means," Locus started to elaborate. "That just because you have an expiration date you can't go around as if it will have no repercussions whether you die now or die later. That would not only impede the mission, but it'd be a waste of potential."

"'Potential', huh?" Grif asked.

Nodding his helmet, Locus turns his attention back to the dashboard. "You may live yet, Dexter Grif, don't waste it now."

That was probably meant to be comforting, but really it just reminded Grif of how that was probably one of the nicest things he's heard from anyone from the past few years. And seeing as it came from _Locus_ only made him seem more pathetic. God, he really was a waste of space, wasn't he?

"We're going to break the atmosphere in a few moments, so I'll give you a rundown of how we're going to infiltrate their base," Locus said killing the silence.

Broken from his thoughts Grif listened in to Locus' plan for how to rescue the gang. He had to make himself as worthwhile as possible, didn't he?

* * *

Getting into the facility wasn't all that hard to do. Plus his job was easy enough. Locus made it clear that he was to act as the distraction to get the Blues and Reds- also what the fuck was up with that name? Talk about no creativity- so that they wouldn't catch Locus sneaking in to find Wash and Carolina.

Sure, that was fine; he could play decoy. Walking around in circles until everyone noticed him was not a problem to do. Besides, he was able to walk at a pace that was sure to not entice another attack. That was a bonus.

After walking how many times around the facility, Grif figured it was time to try a different route just to spruce things up. He snuck into a room with a table that had a plate of fish on it. Just looking at that almost made him vomit right then and there. If he couldn't stomach dried out rations then he sure as fuck couldn't hold down that plate of fish.

But Lopez had told him and Locus that Sarge was the only one to actually side with Temple on his plans against the UNSC- which in itself sounded so off- which meant that he was probably watching the camera feeds with the rest of the Blues and Reds. And if Grif just walked by that plate of food that would tip off Sarge that something was off, which would then tip off this Temple fucker and that would ruin everything.

So for the sake of the mission, he would eat it. He slowly lifted off his helmet, only raising it past his lips while turning his body away from the camera so that they couldn't see his face. Once the smell reached his nose, he almost gagged right then and there, but still, he reached out and tore off part of the fish bringing it to his lips. He couldn't take his time with this though so he had to guzzle down what he had to do, swallowing it down like a bag of nails. He just knows this is going to fuck him over later, but hopefully, it would be after everything was done and over with. The bitter aftertaste in his mouth disagreed roughly.

From his peripheral, he could see a grate to some vents. He figured that he spent the proper amount of time as a distraction. All he had to do now was get 'caught' so that he could be brought to wherever they were holding Simmo- everyone else.

Fitting into the vent wasn't difficult at all, and he wasn't even truly stuck- sure it was tight fit still, but if he wanted to he could shimmy himself out of it faster than he would have before.

So he just sat there, literally twiddling his thumbs waiting for them to think that he fell into their trap when really they fell into his.

He's only mildly shocked when he feels a pair of hands grab at his boots. He's being dragged out of the vent and dumped none-to-nicely on the ground as he stares up at two figures in pink and aquamarine armor.

He almost mistakes them as Donut and Tucker but then they open their mouths ruining the doppelganger effect.

"Wow, they really exaggerated how hard it would be to squeeze him out, a bit of a letdown, huh Bucky? I mean ‘out he came’ way too easily! I expected him to be a bit harder," Not Donut says disappointed to Not Tucker.

"Like I care, less work for me," Not Tucker responds back icily.

"Well, I just expected more, even with your pullout game," Not Donut humphs.

Not Tucker just groans in annoyance and gestures to Grif who hasn't moved from where he was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground. "Who gives a fuck, just handcuff him already!"

Not Donut bends down towards him and whips out a pair of fluffy handcuffs- and goddammit why did he have to be so similar to Real Donut. He leans closer to Grif whispering, "They told me not to tell you but the safe-word is Freud in case it gets a little too much for you." Holy shit, Grif could fucking hear the wink that followed that sentence.

He doesn't put up a fight when Not Donut handcuffs him and he doesn't react when Not Tucker takes his gun.

He has his part to play and he'll play it as well as he fucking can.

As Not Tucker leads the way towards what he presumes is their holding area, he can hear Not Donut stop in his tracks behind him and ask, "Petals? Since when did we have floral arrangements, and why didn't someone tell me?"

Goddammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narcissus. Daffodils.  
> Selfishness. Rebirth.
> 
> Tumblrs: @amateurscribes (writing)/@agent-murica (main)


	2. A Rotting Bud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's Grif. And the petals. And the Narcissus plants. And the Selfishness.
> 
> And now there's the gang. And Simmons...
> 
> And then there's Temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two for this fic, I've got a few things to say at the end of the chapter so there's that. For canon dialogue I referred to online transcripts of the episodes because I can't be trusted to properly hear what they say in the episodes themselves. Once again a big thanks to my beta stickynotedoodler on Tumblr! I hope you all enjoy.

From ahead Grif can hear Not Church monologuing from the holding cells. He doesn't care to listen to the bullshit that the Not Church fucker is trying to spew, and he's certainly ignoring the Not Tucker standing aggressively behind him. The closer he gets to the entrance the build-up he feels in his chest increases.

If he had to guess, this was his own very special Judgement Day that would decide if he could be forgiven or sent to his own personal hell. This could very well be his last chance at a cure- if they cared about him back then the disease would go away, right? Wasn't that how it worked. If he didn't, he was fucked for about as long as it took to get him to the hospital.

But that was another thing, wasn't it? If Locus was to be trusted- and at this point, Grif was confident to say that he trusted him, which was hilariously pathetic of him to even admit- then if he went forward with the surgery he wouldn't care about the gang anymore. Was he sure that he wanted that? That wasn't even considering a once in a million chance side effect that Locus had briefly brought up- there was a chance, albeit a slim one, that he would stop caring about people altogether.

That horrified him. Sure he's built up a good poker face and kept his feelings tight to his heart for the past few years, but that doesn't mean he hadn't had _feelings_ about what he's been through. But he's felt emotionless only twice during two periods of his pathetic life. The first was after their mother had stopped sending checks through the mail for him and Kai, he remembers vividly the loathing he had felt for their mother at the beginning that soon faded away leaving him numb. That was when he had officially dropped out of school to take on the role of caregiver for Kai, taking on three jobs just to be able to pay the rent and put food on the table.

Nothing seemed to matter back then and when he received his draft notice, he distinctly remembered waking up to Kai crying and shaking him, begging him to just wake up. He doesn't remember what had happened the night before, but the bottles of liquor on the ground painted a horrifying picture for him. Kai was frightened to her core, apparently, she had come home from a night out partying to find him half-dead strewn on the couch. That seemed to wake him up from the 'depression'- as Grey would diagnose- he had fallen into. So, he spent the last few weeks of freedom with Kai, reassuring her that he wouldn't do something like that again.

The second had happened directly after the Massacre. He had been in UNSC medical for months after they picked up on the frail signal that he had sent out- but it had taken him a month before he found a working Comm Tower. A month stepping around corpses of fellow squad members, of officers, of the civilians that had frequented the colony. He tried to bury as many of the soldiers at his base but eventually, he ran out of room to dig up holes outside the base. So he resorted to lining up the bodies, finding their dog tags and presenting them on top of their chests. He dragged so many bodies around in that month. There was no shelter from the elements, all of the buildings had been perfectly demolished, with only some walls still standing.

He slipped back into feeling numb slowly, but eventually after continuously tripping over bodies in his search for some kind of communication he stopped caring. That doesn't mean that he started to disrespect the bodies that he did come across- he'd much rather _shoot himself in the leg_ then do that- but he stopped looking at them to pay his respects and instead started to walk past them. Besides, by that time they were already far into decomposing.

He thought that the UNSC would never come for him, he was sure that he would have to kill himself before he starved to death. But the UNSC did come. And for months doctors examined him thoroughly, asking all sorts of questions, talking over him like he wasn't there- going on and on about the after-effects of radiation from the glassing or some other shit. He might as well have been invisible, the near catatonia they found him in had rendered him useless to the UNSC. He wasn't of use to them anymore. So they shipped him off to Project Freelancer to get rid of their failures to protect one of their precious colonies. He couldn't go to the press if he wasn't legally 'alive' anymore.

So no. He didn't want to become emotionless like that ever again. He didn't want to stop the joy that he felt when Kai enveloped him into one of her hugs, the warmth of it bringing a smile to his face without fail. He didn't want to stop the pride that fills him when one of the guys did something to cause pure, utter mayhem with no consequences or care. And he certainly didn't want to stop the butterflies that filled his stomach or the flutter of his heart when Simmons smiled at him.

He didn't want to deny himself of those privileges. He didn't want to become the stone cold asshole that others must perceive him as.

Grif didn't want to become the picture of himself that the volleyballs made him out to be.

He doesn't think that he'll go in for a surgery then.

He's broken from his thoughts when Not Tucker aggressively pushes him forward, making the automatic doors open up for him as he's escorted into the holding cell. He tried to adopt an air calm before he sees the guys again, he doesn't want them to see how far the cracks in his carefully crafted facade have grown, but that all melts away when he finally sees them through his visor.

It feels like the air was stolen from him and he almost chokes if it wasn't for Simmons calling out his name, "Grif!?"

He can't help but slip and call out because he's waited so fucking long to see him again, "Simmons!"

He can see Tucker clench his fists as he growls out, " _Grif_."

Caboose is saying something about being colorblind but all Grif is really paying attention to is Simmons. He doesn't even care that Not Church has all but shoved him into the cell adjacent to Simmons. Simmons is right _there_ in front of him and he's _real_.

Simmons rushes towards him, the bars stopping him from reaching out towards Grif, it's getting harder for Grif to breathe but he doesn't care because Simmons is there and doesn't hate him which _must_ mean that he reciprocates surely. "You got my message!"

"I did!" he's just so excited to even care that they're in jail cells currently. "Oh guys, there's so much I need to tell you!"

Not Church steps threateningly close to him as he interrupts, "It can wait."

"No! Not another minute," Grif doesn't even give a single shit about Not Church, this is _his_ moment now and he's not going to wait a second longer. "I'm sick of waiting. I am sorry!" he blurts out.

"Everyone, Simmons, I'm sorry I left like that." He can see Simmons hunch his shoulders slightly but he just continues on. "Tucker, I'm sorry I didn't come with-"

"Shut up, please," Not Church interrupts again as if his opinion even mattered at this point.

Turning towards Caboose, he speaks about as honestly as he can get, "Caboose, I'm sorry I didn't help you find Church. That makes me a bad friend."

He was hoping that when he admitted his mistakes, that when he finally got to apologize that the invisible weight on his chest would just fucking disappear but it didn't. Not even when Caboose said, "It's okay! I know he's still out there."

But then Not Church just had to fucking ruin everything by opening his stupid mouth and start laughing. "Really? You think so?" he goaded.

"Stop it," Tucker's voice is quiet but firm.

"But I don't want to," Not Church said. "Caboose, would you like to hear Church's full message? We got the whole recording right here. He talks about you."

Holy fuck was Not Church a goddamned asshole. Grif can recognize the taunts for what they are, but Caboose still goes for the bait, "Really?"

Not Church jerks his head towards the Not Caboose, whose standing meekly behind Not Church, "Play it, Loco."

A beep echoes around the silent room as a robotic voice drones out, " _Playing archived message from Blood Gulch Outpost._ " It's followed by two more beeps.

Then suddenly like the crack of a whip _Church's_ voice can be heard after so fucking long, " _Control! Control, do you read? This is Church from Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha, over. If you're getting this it's an emergency!_ " So far the message sounds similar to the blurry one that Grif can remember when that reporter first arrived on the moon, but as it continues it changes.

" _You've gotta send a plumber as soon as you get this, please!_ " Grif turns towards Simmons just as Simmons turns towards him. There's an anger that's curling up in his chest, but he still remains silent.

" _Tucker and Caboose--eugh--they flushed a damn grenade down the shitter and it exploded!_ " That anger begins to curl outwards and begin to fester because he's smart enough to understand just exactly what game Not Church is fucking playing.

" _And it's everywhere Control! It's coming out of the goddamn walls for Pete's sake._ "

Everything. Everything he's had to fucking deal with...

" _Send help, please. We need--I need--a plumber. Fuck! And some god-damn new recruits too, because I'm about to murder these two! Church out._ "

For _that_ message.

The moon. The coughing, the petals, the fucking volleyballs, the _insanity_ -

For _that._

Two beeps.

" _End message._ "

There's a certain smugness permeating through the air and Grif just knows that it's all coming from that motherfucking Not Church _bastard_ , "It's crazy what you can do with editing software these days." That asshole is clearly enjoying his little gloating session when he continues, "What's the matter, Tucker? Cat got your tongue? I'm curious; do you all remember that?" Yes. "Granted it happened a long time ago in a Gulch far, far away, but still! It must've been a memorable episode." He wouldn't know- doesn't know- about all the long lonely nights on the moon where Grif just stared up at the stars, begging for either death or to return to a time where his life wasn't fucked up by Freelancers or unknown diseases or people actually _dying_. Was it too much to ask for a time of just sitting around and talking, exchanging barbs with people who were and weren't enemies?

Of course, that'd be too much to ask for. It's selfish of him to think otherwise.

Caboose just sounds so confused that Grif almost reaches out to him, because sure Caboose might be a little slow but he was still human and he had emotions, emotions that don't deserve to get trampled on because some chuckle-fuck of a discount super villain decided to play mastermind. "I- I don't get it is he- is he back in Blood Gulch?" Caboose stammers out.

The urge to knock out Not Church grows when he hears his snide,  "No, goddammit, we lied to you. He's dead!"

He almost wishes that they pulled aside Caboose at some point to explain everything because hearing him say, "For now" is painful.

For some fucking reason, Not Church is taking Caboose's denial personally as he angrily barks out, "No! Forever! How fucking stupid are you?"

He can't take it anymore, Caboose doesn't deserve to be ripped into like this- only selfish assholes like him should get treated like this- so he calls out, "Christ, man, lay off!"

Not Church's response isn't nearly as biting as when he was talking to Caboose. "What-the-fuck-ever, he's an adult, okay." Grif can't help but scowl at that, maybe Not Church should follow his own advice and try to not sound so much like petulant _child_. "Maybe if you all didn't treat him like some big baby, he would understand something as simple as death. As dying and being gone for-ev-er."

He's not wrong, and that's what scares Grif. Just the fact that this asshole is making even the slightest bit of sense seems wrong.

"I'll give him a real-world example if you unlock this fucking cell," Tucker says and even from across the room Grif can feel the unrestrained loathing coming off of him.

It doesn't seem to affect Not Church in the slightest, "Oh ho ho, woah! Great plan! I'mma hop right on that!"

Caboose has been silent until now, only speaking up to quietly say, "So you changed his message so we would come looking for you?"

Not Church has to be smirking, there's no way he's not when he says, "Bingo. Thank you. I had help, of course. Loco's the one who did the scrambling."

Grif doesn't quite understand the deal with Not Caboose, especially when he stammers out, "Look- a -we- wha- see, what happened- um, we can still be friends!" He sounds so sincere saying it as if he and Caboose aren't currently on opposite sides of the battlefield.

Maybe he's redeemable. Maybe he's not. Grif doesn't care too much, for right now he's an enemy.

Then Not Church has to add his two cents because of fucking course he does, "No, you can't. This is goodbye. We are leaving. Onward, to victory! Adieu, adieu, farewell."

As Not Church and Not Caboose walk out, Grif can only glare at that pompous asshole.

There's some exchange going on between Not Tucker and Actual Tucker but he's not listening, there's a ringing in his ears that's threatening to drill his fucking skull in half and that takes up a little more precedence than the dick off between the aqua soldiers.

Just one second of being selfish, he tells himself, because if he doesn't take that one second then he'll pass out and be more useless than he already is.

Turns out his one second of selfishness lasts a lot longer than _one second_ because when he tunes back into the real world he only catches the end of, "- never got to say goodbye. Or, thank you for being my friend." Caboose.

"They'll pay for this. I promise. I'll make them pay." Tucker.

And Grif in all of his stupidity chimes in with, "We all will."

He shouldn't be surprised when Tucker lashes out and tells him upfront, "You shut the fuck up Grif, you've done enough already!"

It still hurts.

There's a build-up of pressure as he says, "Ease up dude, I did my best."

His chest is starting to hurt.

"Your best!?" Tucker has no fucking clue about how much his 'best' is starting to tear him apart from the inside out. "You fucking botched our only chance of escape."

Grif would rather die than fuck up anything else, so _no_ , no he _didn't_.

Grif tells him as much, "Uh, no I didn't."

"You busted in here, made an ass of yourself, and got caught. What do you call that?" Tucker thinks he's so high and goddamn mighty but he doesn't even know _shit_.

Because he and Locus have a plan- Locus will find Wash and Carolina while he's, "A pretty fucking sweet diversion."

Simmons shifts in the cell next to him, and he's been silent until now. "What are you talking about, Grif?"

Now it's Grif's turn to smirk. "Don't worry guys, we've got it all handled. All we have to do now is wait for Locus to come and-"

"LOCUS?" Tucker explodes. "Are you kidding me?! I knew you were an idiot but I didn't think you'd be suicidal enough to team up with that murderer!"

His smirk dips downwards into a scowl. He crosses his arms and says, "Well yeah, duh. But he's different now, he told me that he's sworn off killing. So he's trustworthy now!"

Simmons is practically screaming discomfort in the way he's holding himself. He timidly asks, "And you believe him?"

Grif rolls his eyes. "Trust me, if Locus wanted to kill us he could've killed me on the moon because that would've been a free kill- wouldn't even have to work for it."

"And, what, your word is supposed to be good enough for us? Remember, you abandoned us so how do we know that you're telling the truth?" Tucker shakes his head.

Dropping his arms, he clenches his fists. "Yeah, I left then, but I'm here _now_ so why can't you just believe that we've both turned over a new leaf!"

Now Tucker is the one crossing his arms, "Because that's suspicious as fuck dude. You'd have an easier time convincing me that Felix didn't masturbate to himself at night."

That blossoming feeling is a warning sign, a small ember that can quickly fan into a flame. Turning towards Simmons he reaches out to his only lifeline. "Come on, Simmons you believe me right?"

Simmons turns slightly away and nervously grabs his cyborg arm. "Well, it does sound a little weird, Grif." He can almost imagine the blush on his pale face as Simmons stammers out, "I- I mean, sure Locus didn't kill us back on Chorus but that doesn't mean we can trust him per se."

Unbelievable. But not unexpected. Grif looks at Caboose, "What about you Caboose?" He doesn't want to drag the blue soldier into the conversation, but maybe that's something they should do more often. They shouldn't treat him like a porcelain doll.

Caboose is quiet and glances at Tucker. He doesn't respond.

A knife is piercing his heart that's the only fathomable reason for why his heart is twisting in such a disgusting manner. Turning away, he tries to center himself and before he starts to _hyperventilate_ -

Fuck he knew eating that fish was a bad idea-

He scrambles to wrench off his helmet as the bile rises up his throat. He barely makes it, his hair held back by a loose rubber band, spewing his guts out onto the cell floor. He can vaguely hear the exclaims of disgust from the others over the sounds of him throwing up, but he ignores it in favor of the second reprieve he gets before he heaves once more.

He pants for a few seconds before spewing vomit onto the cell floor again. It's a mixture of whatever the fuck was left in his stomach and blood. As he starts to peter off, spittle drips down his chin.

In retrospect, it's easy to ignore the slight fluttering of petals onto the ground. In retrospect, it's easy to ignore the pressure building up on his sides from how he's grabbing himself as if it's his only anchor in that moment- and holy fuck it's true isn't it? No matter what he does, who he's with, no matter _anything_ he's going to die.

He's going to die because he's selfish and he's _selfless_ enough to not leave the guys alone to deal with this threat because he's selfish but if he's selfish enough to act selflessly to help the gang out of the situation that came from his original selfishness then what does that make him?

A goddamn idiot. That's what that makes him.

His head hurts.

When he finally tunes back into what the others are saying, Grif recognizes that for the past few _whatever the fuck_ Simmons has been repeating his name getting more and more hoarse and desperate while Tucker just rants in the background.

"Grif what the fuck was that, were you poisoned by Locus- see we can't trust that bastard-"

"Grif?! Are you ok?!"

"-he probably drugged you while you weren't looking and convinced you that he was there to help and you would accept it because of _fucking_ course you would!"

"Y-you're fine, Grif! You have to be fine, right! Right?"

And then together they manage to plead/demand, "Just fucking _answer us_!"

That's not concern he hears in their voices. He's just kidding himself. He's getting desperate and looking for ways to convince his body (or was it his mind? Just what part of his body is responsible for the disease and how can he convince it to just fucking stop at this point-)

"I'm fine," he manages to pant out.

"What the fuck, Grif!" Tucker yells, and Christ why is he even yelling in the first place Grif's literally across the room from him. "Me standing here _not_ puking my guts out is being fine, not _actually puking my guts out_ like what you just did!"

Ignoring Tucker, Grif looks to the right and sees Simmons clenching the bars that are separating them tightly. But he's not looking at him, instead he's looking at the pile of bile on the ground.

"Is that- holy shit it is! T-that's blood! Why is there blood?" Simmons gasps out.

"And petals," Caboose pips up. "A lot of petals. Um, they are different colors I think? One is just white but the other is a sorta light grey?"

"Petals?" Tucker exclaims. "Holy fuck, did Locus poison you with a flower?! I knew that son of a bitch was stealthy but why the fuck would you eat a flower?"

"I- I didn't eat a goddamned flower," the words struggle to get past his mouth. "And Locus didn't poison me. I told you guys- he's on our side now, we're- we're _partners_."

"So what he just replaced one orange asshole with _another_ orange asshole," Tucker presses the point. "You're just delusional!"

Finally turning to face Tucker, Grif glares at him. "You're gonna be so wrong when he comes through those doors to save our asses, you know that, right?"

Glaring back equally as hard, Tucker bites out, "Then I guess we'll just have to wait and see which one of us is right."

"I'm sorry, can we get back to the fact that Grif is apparently throwing up petals and _blood_. I'd really like to stress out the blood part of that sentence," Simmons sounds equally angry and concerned as he breaks up their pissing contest.

"Don't worry about it, happens all the time," Grif tried to go for nonchalance but only seemed to stress out Simmons more.

"What do you mean it 'happens all the time', that's not good!" Simmons voice going up a higher octave the way it did when he was at his limits in terms of bullshittery that they always seemed to get into.

Fucking great, now he had to come up with a good enough lie so that they would get off his back and resolutely ignore the petals, so that eventually they would forget all about it and Grif could just find a nice quiet place to curl up and die.

But not before he manages to help them get out of this whole thing alive. He doesn't want to die before he proves once and for all to the universe that he's not a selfish asshole.

He slips on his helmet, positive that he's not going to throw up anymore.

"Well, when you're left alone on a moon with no way to get off or call for supplies, eventually you'll run out of edible food," and there he fucking went making it all about him. That lie was so far off from the truth that it was tragically funny- just the thought of him eating anything fully almost made him turn back around to throw up. And of course he just had to add in a sprinkle of guilt tripping to it.

Simmons starts to sputter at that, Tucker turned away from his direction slightly, and Caboose was mumbling about different shades of grey and the colors that coordinate with them.

Before that disastrous conversation can go any further the door to the holding cells opens- and thank _fuck_ there's Locus coming in to save him again like an extremely frightening knight in menacing black armor with white and green trimmings.

"See, I told you guys. Me and Locus are partners now," he smugly directs at Tucker.

The sound of Locus' energy sword activating is music to his ears.

"Please, stop!" Locus grits out annoyed.

Hidden behind his helmet, Grif ruefully smiles. Because while Locus might not admit it they _are_ partners, at least for this mission.

Locus' attitude certainly doesn't stop him from exclaiming, "I dig this."

* * *

It's almost pitiful how easy Grif gets back into the flow of just _being_ there with Simmons. Even if he has to listen to the recap of just who exactly these Blues and Reds are and how much Simmons hates his own doppelganger.

He briefly wonders where his own counterpart is but then just assumes that they suffered the fate that all orange SIM Troopers fall into.

And- and this is all fine. But then, of fucking course, Simmons has to bring up the moon because why the fuck wouldn't he. "You seemed so serious when you left."

Of course he did. Because he was.

"I was," he pauses, trying to think of the best way to put it, "a little heated."

Simmons sounds so timid when he says, "I thought you were gone for good."

But that's the thing, he is gone for good. Or at least he will be. With the way things have been going lately? Right now he's just a corpse that decided that it wanted to stick around in the world of the living for just a bit longer.

Still he manages to get out, "Yeah, it was definitely the idea."

He can practically hear the purr of Simmons' curiosity, especially when he asks, "What changed your mind?"

Grif knows exactly why, but they're not good reasons- they're _selfish_ reasons. "I don't know."

He practically wants to beg Simmons to press him why; he needs to know if Simmons cares enough to ask.

But all he gets out of it is an awkward, "Okay."

He's quiet for a moment, but fuck it he's going to die sometime soon anyways. Maybe instead of waiting around for good things to happen to him he should just own up to the fact that all of this ends with only one thing-

His death.

The words start to spill from his mouth, but he's resigned through and through. "Tucker, Caboose, Sarge... Fucking Donut. Simmons, I hate those guys." He hopes Simmons hears that he left his name out of it. He hopes Simmons gets it through his head that he loves him, the fucking nerd. He hopes Simmons might love him back.

His chest hurts.

"I mean hate, but holy hell, does shit get boring without 'em, and you know, I figured without me to beat up on, y'all were doomed to fall apart at the seams. I'm your hate glue." And there it is, his thoughts on himself. All Simmons needs to do is contradict him and then everything would be fin-

"Well, I'm glad you're back."

His throat closes up even as they go back forth, back forth in fucking _circles_.

And if he lashes out and projects his anger on that cameraman, then who the fuck is going to blame him.

He's going to die anyways.

* * *

Wash gets shot.

There's enough time to get _him_ to the hospital.

* * *

He doesn't know what it is that compels him to go out and search for Tucker. Tucker's a Blue and he's a Red. They're supposed to hate each other, Tucker especially so since he knows exactly what type of selfish asshole Grif is.

But he still goes out and finds him anyways, standing around a makeshift campfire hangout. Why this kind of setup is found in the canyon where the Blues and Reds resided baffles him.

Hearing footsteps Tucker tenses, "Leave me alone, Caboose-oh," he turns and notices that it's him, "...it's you. What do you want, Grif?"

He finds no reason to beat around the bush. "We know where they are, Tucker. We're going after 'em."

Tucker pauses but responds nonetheless, "Is that really a good idea? Given our track record, I just...I can't imagine us doing anything but making this all worse."

God he sounds so fucking despondent that it almost feels as bad as the pain persisting to build up in his chest.

He can't help but point this out, "What's gotten into you, man?"

That just seems to make Tucker explode as he begins to rant, "I'm a fuckup is what!" No he's not. The only fuck up around is Grif.

"Just when I thought I was getting good at this hero stuff, I crashed, and fucking burned. I trusted Temple! I let down Wash, and I lost my sword! My fucking sword!" If Tucker thinks his worth is measured by the sword then where does that leave Grif?

"I'm a...what's the word?" He pauses and Grif holds his breath.  "'Liability'." No, Grif's the only liability here. "You ask me, we're better letting the authorities deal with Temple."

Hopeless Tucker is decidedly a lot more annoying than Normal Tucker, and Grif is the only one willing to smack him out of it. "That'll go well. 'Uh, hey, 911? It's the Reds and Blues? Our evil doppelgangers are going to shoot a laser through the Earth from some tiny islands in the Indian Ocean. Okay thanks. Bye!'" He mocks.

The hesitation practically permeates on Tucker. "Fuck. Dude, I don't know if I can do this."

But he needs to do this, because as much as he hates to admit Tucker is capable of doing so much more than the rest of them. "Well, with Carolina on the DL, we kind of need you, man." Maybe if he makes a joke at his expense he could get Tucker out of his mood, acting like the hate-glue should. "I mean, if the Blues and Reds challenged us to a hot-dog eating contest, I can take 'em. But I got a feeling that it won't be that easy," Just thinking about it is making him sick but he can't let that show, "...or delicious."

"I'm not a freelancer, Grif." Tucker tells him.

Oh believe him that much is obvious, but they wouldn't have gotten as far as they have if they were Freelancers. "I know! But, shit, dude! You're the best we've got!"

He mumbles under his breath, "Man, this feels weird." He's not made to be optimistic. "I don't know if I'm really cut out to give pep talks, Tucker. Can you just, uhhh, I don't know. Throw me a bone and come along, already?"

There's something about Tucker's posture that let's Grif know that he's made it through to him somehow, even as he sighs. "Tell me how special I am, Grif." And of course they can't just any sort of _normal_ conversations.

Grif shuts that shit down fast, "No."

Tucker has switched quite thoroughly from being a ball of negativity to a complete asshole seamlessly. "Please Grif, I need to hear it from you."

But there's only so much he can take before he's done with dealing with bullshit like this. "Fuck off, dude." He's beyond irritated when he says, "Never mind."

He doesn't know what Tucker's trying to get at when he says, "I'm not going anywhere, until you tell me I'm the best again."

If it means getting Tucker to come with him then he'll swallow his pride and acquiesce to the bastard.

But it's going to be on his goddamn terms, "Tucker, you're the best at, not using birth control!"

"You know, your sister thought I was the best too," and he should have expected a retaliation of some sort.

He turns around and starts to mutter under his breath, "I should have stayed alone on the fucking planet." No, he shouldn't have. "Volleyball Tucker knew when to keep his mouth shut." No he didn't, Grif had to move him to Blue Base because the voices were just too much and too _many_.

He must not have been quiet enough because Tucker responds to his statement, "Uhhh, what?"

He throws out a 'don't worry about it' over his shoulder and continues on his way back to the others when Tucker calls out to him again.

"Wait, Grif!"

Turning back towards him, he sees that Tucker had slightly outstretched his arm towards him.

He's surprised, in his opinion their conversation was done and there wasn't anything left to talk about. "Yeah? What's up?"

Curling his hand, Tucker lowered his arm. Suddenly hesitant, he crossed his arms instead. "What was that? Back in the jail cells I mean, and I'm not talking about you being buddy-buddy with Locus."

Fuck, and to think he had almost gotten away with it too. "If you're talking about me throwing up, then I should let you know that I ate some fish that was lying around- for the sake of being a distraction! Should have guessed that it wouldn't settle right, it _was_ made by this Temple guy-"

"Grif," Tucker cut him off, voice hard. He paused for a second, sounding much softer as he said, "What was with the blood and the flowers?"

"Nothing," he deflected. "Nothing that concerns the mission at least, so you don't have to be worried about me being a liability."

Grif can almost hear Tucker flinching as his words were spit back at him.

"Why are you avoiding the subject?" Tucker asked.

"Because nothing you, or anyone else, can do will help." he answers plainly.

Because in the end it was really that simple, even if his chest hurt so _fucking_ much.

And he has distinct feeling that a long time ago, a different conversation between a Blue soldier and a Red soldier ended a lot differently.

* * *

As much as he loved not being selfish for once and being able to do something to help out the gang, he knew exactly what he was getting into when he took the Methshrooms again. It was just like that time during his isolation on the moon- the adrenaline boost was great to kick those other SIM Troopers asses, but the drop was enough to leave him struggling to take in oxygen.

He can hardly focus on anything going on around him, trying to focus on taking deep breaths in and out, in and out, in and fucking out. He was fine, he was completely fin-

"Ugh, I'm gonna- I'm gonna need a minute, guys."

Then of course Simmons has to chime in with a, "I told you that taking all the Meth Methshrooms at once was a terrible idea."

But there was no other way for him to take them because if he even tried to do them in increments it'd be the same damn shit because of the same damn _condition_ but even worse and multiple times-

"Yeah, I'm gonna hurl. Oh no." Crouching down he barely manages to get his helmet off before he's throwing up again and fuck you'd think he'd have nothing _left_ to throw up but you'd be _wrong_.

Simmons is next to him sighing as he says, "I'll hold your head."

A few strands of hair fall in front of his eyes from where they came loose of his bun. He's spitting out the mixture of bile, blood, and spit from his mouth when he hears, "Well, you've got thirty seconds. We still got work to do. Before that psychopath turns on the time machine."

Then of course, because Tucker just had to tempt fate the damn thing came on at that exact moment. And of course, because the universe just _loves_ him he feels a familiar tickle at the back of his throat.

Who was he to forget that he had a goddamned disease that wanted to make sure that he was constantly aware that he was unloved and didn't deserve anything. Quickly grabbing his helmet, he secures it on his head and immediately mutes his radio. He doesn't want them know about this, much less hear it.

With his chest-plate on, it conceals most of the shaking and while it is still painful as fuck the others don't get to see anything. It just looks like he's still heaving from having to exert a lot of energy running around from before. He doesn't believe in a God, but there's still a part of him that sends out a quick prayer that this attack doesn't last long. He should feel guilty, calling out to a deity that he doesn't believe in, but he knows that if there were a god it would have taken him out of his misery a long, long time ago.

And just like karma, his punishment for calling out to a superior being for help is that the attack lasts a very long time. And now he has a fully formed narcissus plant taking residence in front of his visor- and he can't even discreetly remove the damn thing without raising everyone's suspicions.

He's noticed that the flower changes in form from attack to attack but it's always a narcissus flower in the end. This time, he notices the delicacy of the white petals contrasted with it's golden center. It looks too pure in his eyes, but he knows what it means.

It haunts his eyes as a reminder that he's a selfish person at his core.

* * *

He can't even manage to be happy that Simmons remembers _the_ conversation that they held. The conversation that just about started it all.

Because if it held the weight that it does to Grif to _Simmons_ then that'd mean Simmons had to care.

And if he cared then the pain would have stopped.

But his chest still hurts.

* * *

Everything from that point on is a fucking _nightmare_. Ranging from when Grif tried to be heroic and not selfish again, only to end up making a fool of himself (and knocking the air completely out of his lungs which fucking _hurt_ ), to Church coming back from a goddamned time portal.

Yeah, he doesn't know how to process _that_ wound that had been ripped open again. Because, sure, he missed Church as much as the rest of them. But if Grif had died to protect the gang, then he sure as hell wouldn't want to come back. A sacrifice was meant to mean something, the most pivotal act of showing how much you cared and how selfless you were.

So maybe that was what he was missing? In trying to not be selfish, all he really did was prove of selfish he actually is. He should want to help the gang, not because of the off chance that he'd get magically cured, but because he _wants_ to help them.

Fuck, that stupid Blue asshole wasn't even alive and yet here he still was proving how much better of a person he was than Grif.

But Grif was a coward and selfish, he doesn't want to die so when he hears someone even mention the word 'sacrifice' he blurts out, "Not it!"

Then VIC goes ahead and proves that if you ever need someone to sacrifice their life for yours, just go to an AI because they seemed to just love it.

This whole adventure has physically drained him. And baffled the fuck outta him.

"Does someone wanna explain what the fuck just happened?" he can't help but ask.

Tucker, who seems as equally confused as he is, is surprisingly the one who answers him, "We uh...we won! I think?"

Grif can't help but disagree, he knows that he hasn't won anything in the end.

He watches as Tucker turns towards Temple, to witness him trying to sneak away. Tucker practically storms over to him in fury, looming over Temple as he draws his sword, freezing Temple in his place.

The unbridled fury is palpable in Tucker's voice as he says, "This is for Wash, you piece of shit."

Grif watches as Carolina approaches with Doc, and as he looks at Doc a cocktail of conflicting emotions had emerged. Doc had betrayed the group just as much as he did, yet he doesn't even look bothered by his deeds. How is it fair that he, who didn't join the enemy, suffers while that traitor gets off scot free.

Anymore thoughts on that Benedict Arnold medic _bastard_ are cut off when Carolina says, "Tucker, stop."

"Oh, come on! Now you show up?" Tucker whines.

But nothing seems to stop Carolina as she firmly tells him, "Don't kill him."

Temple, thinking that his opinion actually matters pipes up, "I-I think she makes a great point, Tucker!"

Tucker, seems to physically disagree with Carolina, and when had this moral aspect shifted so drastically? "But he deserves it more than anyone! He's a killer!"

"And so are we." Are they? He supposes, but he doesn't really want to kill people. "But we're a different sort, Tucker." But a killer is still a killer, no matter the motive. "We only fight and take lives when we have to." Why do they _have_ to? Isn't there a different way- one that involves saving lives than ending them? "And you don't have to this time." He'd prefer it if they didn't have too, _ever_.

Temple, trying to egg on Tucker despite his situation, says, "Yeah, Tucker! If you kill me, you'll just perpetuate this never-ending cycle of revenge and retaliation!" There's a defiant tone shift as he says, "My friends will avenge me!"

"What friends?" Tucker lays it out to him plain and simple.

Temple, who up until that point had words to spare merely stuttered, "I...uh..."

But then there's a subtle shift, and Grif tenses as everything in his body screams out that there's danger present.

" _No_ ," Temple growls out. "NO," he screams as he tears his helmet off violently, throwing it to the side as if it were on fire.

Grif is surprised to see how sickly the man looks, his black hair damp with grease and brittle from a lack of care. His skin, which must of at one point been tan, is now lifeless with a pallor that would make a corpse jealous. Taunt and pulling tightly against his bones, Temple looks like he never had a single bite of food in _years_.

He looks dead, only being kept alive by spite and vengeance.

He looks like what Grif might have become if Locus hadn't rescued him from the moon.

Tucker went on guard after the first 'no' but now he seems to radiate disgust, "It's over asshole, just stand down."

Temple glares at him, pupils constricted, looking every bit like the maniac he's become. "No, it's over when _I_ say it's over, Tucker." His hands are clenched against the ground, gritting his teeth like a rabid animal. "I won't allow this to be the result of my years of suffering and hard work- defeated by a bunch of idiotic _SIM Troopers_ and their pet fucking _Freelancer_!" He screeches.

Carolina hobbles closer to him hands held up to pacify the deranged man. "Just calm down, we're not going to kill you-"

"Wise words coming from _you_ ," he snarls. "You in particular have been the bane of my existence for years! You may have killed Biff, but I won't let you kill me- _any of you_!"

Grif has always found that there's something horrifying about desperate people, because when there's nothing beyond the end for them they do some pretty scary things.

There shouldn't be anything scary about the words, " _I_ give up."

But then Temple's eyes roll into the back of his head as his body starts to convulse, his body heaving as a sharp whistle of air tries to enter his lungs. But then Grif hears the choking, and sees the blood dribble down Temple's chin and he knows _exactly what's happening_.

He expects petals, maybe a full flower, but nothing can prepare him from the literal hundreds of flowers that come bursting from his mouth- fucking stems and probably goddamned roots and all. He's so focused on the oddly shaped blue flowers coming from his mouth, that he doesn't hear the gangs exclamations of horror or even take notice of the full flowers that are sprouting between the cracks of his power armor.

Temple collapses, his head turned towards Grif's direction that he can see his eyes that were a few seconds ago sparked with madness but are now dull and lifeless, and Grif knows that he's dead and holy fuck that's what's going to _happen to him_ -

Doc rushes to the body, quickly checking his pulse before shaking his head and sighing. "He's dead," he confirms.

Carolina is shaking even as she tersely asks, "Doc, what just happened?"

The others perk up to reiterate what Carolina said, but all Grif can do is stare at the body on the ground, and he's fucking hallucinating again because he's seeing double and that's not Temple on the ground anymore now it's Grif and he can't breathe because now he knows what waits for him when his time comes-

Doc looks away slightly, but still answers anyways, "It's meant to be confidential, but seeing as we're already enemies of the UNSC I don't see how it matters much." He pauses looking down at the body. "This- Temple was suffering from an extreme case of Hanahaki disease. Most who develop the disease don't live beyond a few months without the intensive surgery required to remove the flowers fully."

He gets up from his kneel and turns away from the corpse, cradling his arms- holding himself together. "We still don't know too much about the disease, but from what we know it's an offset from the leftover radiation after the glassings during the Human-Covenant War. It- something about it," Doc mimics covering his mouth with the armor on. "If you're exposed to this certain type of radiation, all you need is a catalyst and then it spreads like an infection. It's not contagious, only really painful and especially deadly."

Grif expects Carolina to speak up, maybe call Doc out on his bullshit, but he feels like he's had this conversation once before- between the flashes of Grif's body lying dead there on the floor he gets flashes of a medical table and the heat of a gulch far, far away from Earth.

Maybe he expects Simmons to perk up and question the scientific logic of such a disease, but then again it's alien originated and nothing about aliens makes any damn sense.

It's actually Tucker who speaks up, and he's not looking at Doc when he asks, "What do you mean by catalyst?" because he's looking straight at _Grif_.

A pressure builds up in his throat and for once he knows it's not coming from his condition.

Doc sounds awkward and meek when he responds, "Usually the catalyst is intense emotions related to unrequited feelings. It doesn't have to be love, but it has to be intense enough to stress the radiation into developing buds."

Donut scoots closer to Temple, and he looks like he's going to pass out himself- _heaven_ knows why- asking, "Do the flowers matter?"

Turning towards him, but not looking down at the body, Doc answered, "Depends on whether we can figure out what the flowers actually are."

Donut's hand hovers over the branch of flowers that sprouted through one of the cracks of the armor, but then opts to simply observing and not touching. He's silently scrutinizing them when he calls out softly, "These are lobelias, and if I recall my botany book well enough, I'm sure that they mean _malevolence_." He shivers before backing away from Temple, moving away from the group entirely.

The reporters had been quiet up to this point, but Dylan takes a step towards Doc and, ever inquisitive, asks, "You said that diagnosed patients usually succumb to disease after months, how is it that he managed to live like this for- what he implied was years- and why didn't he get surgery when he knew that he had it?"

"See, that's the thing," Doc stresses. "We're- the UNSC and all medical professionals aware- have no clue how he managed to live, let alone function like a healthy human. As for the surgery- the side effect of removing the flowers is removing the feelings associated with that person. There's also the chance you could lose the capacity to feel _entirely_."

"Jesus," the cameraman whispers under his breath.

"He mentioned this Biff guy," Tucker chimes in, momentarily forgetting the staring contest he was having with Grif (can it really be 'with' someone if only one person was participating?). "Carolina, does the name ring any bells?"

"It... doesn't," she says. "I feel like it should, but I can't remember. I'm sorry," she apologizes.

The reporter gives a glance at the cameraman and shakes her head slightly, cutting him off from speaking up.

They stay in that room a moment longer, the corpse of a broken man weighing heavy on their conscience.

* * *

Grif doesn't outwardly show it, but he's glad that his sister is alive. He knew she wasn't dead, but that nagging voice in the back of his head can finally shut the fuck up about it.

When she embraces him in a hug, he expects the warmth from his little sister to repulse his condition away from him. He tightens his hold on her when the pressure against his chest doesn't lessen.

He doesn't understand it, she loves him- he _knows_ she does so why-

Whatever warmth he had felt seeps away and he's frigid against the cold touch of armor, creating a divide from him and the sister he helped to raise. He feels _numb_.

The pain in his chest tightens.

He's going to die.

* * *

They're on the ship, heading- hopefully- towards a relaxing outing with delicious pizza (that he prays he'll actually be able to enjoy) when Tucker corners him in the pilots cabin.

"When are you going to tell us," he demands.

He decides to play ignorant, just for a little while longer. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Tucker has his helmet off and resting against his hip, so he gets to see the glare he gives him. "Yes, you do," he states. "We have to do something about the fact that you have," he pauses, checking to make sure the door to the cabin is locked and that the others can't eavesdrop on their private conversation, "Hanahaki disease."

"No, we don't, because I have been managing fine so far," he responds icily. He doesn't see why Tucker is so fucking concerned when it's partially his fault.

"You don't even look fine, you've thrown up like- what three times was it?" Tucker moves to the co-pilot seat, settling down.

"Two," he mumbles. "It was only two times."

"Yeah, well you should be throwing up no times man," Tucker says. He waits for Grif to respond but when he doesn't he sighs. "Are you really going to ignore this?"

"Yup."

Tucker is quiet for a moment before breaking the silence with, "Can you at least tell what type of flower it is?"

Grif consider it, and finds it harmless. He reaches over to the dashboard and picking up the full flower that he hacked up before they went to confront Temple. He's surprised Tucker didn't notice it before.

"Here," he says tossing it at Tucker. "Ask Donut about it if you're so curious."

Tucker quirks an eyebrow at him but he caught the damn thing nonetheless. Getting up from the co-pilot seat he enters the main cabin again. For a few minutes it's just Grif flying by himself, but then Tucker's back there next to him, clenching that damned flower in his hand.

"You're not selfish," he whispers. "God I'm- fuck Grif, I didn't mean it."

Yes, he did.

He doesn't respond and then Tucker leaves to head back to the others. It's just him and the open air flying until the ship gets a transmitted message from Locus that practically spells trouble.

In his mind he's reminded of the new science he's made.

Tucker's wrong.

All Grif's ever been is selfish.

* * *

The next few minutes are a blur to him and in his despair at the remains of fucking normalcy he can barely process everything that's happened.

Donut coming back (and when did he even leave in the first place?)

The pizzeria being destroyed (twice).

Time travel actually being a thing that's possible (and how fucking hilarious is that?)

In his grief he almost missed the terrifying goddess alien lady who definitely wanted to kill them.

And then he heard Doc calling out to him and being pushed into some portal.

At this point he might as well give up. But then images of Temple's death force their way into his mind and he remembers exactly why he _specifically_ shouldn't 'give up'.

* * *

When he comes to, all he can see is a sea of white, shivering even with his suit on.

He looks to his right and there's the Purple Rosenberg himself, still unconscious from whatever fucking alien excuse for time travel sent them here.

There's no one else and he starts to panic, hyperventilating slightly. His hands are numb from the snow, but he still manages to grip at his chest plate, begging that he doesn't have another fucking attack and isn't that just fucking swell-

He doesn't _understand_ it. Whose feelings aren't being reciprocated?

Is it Simmons?

Is it the gang?

Is it Kaikaina? Doc said the feelings didn't have to be romantic, only unrequited so did that mean she hated him? After everything he's done for her? After everything he's sacrificed so that she could have the hope to have the life he'd never get?

Or is it himself? Wouldn't that be morbidly ironic?

Because the one thing he can never come to fucking love is himself, trapping himself in a cycle of self-hatred and misery.

If it is himself then it's official.

He is going to _die_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, geeze, where to start? Well, I want to say and explain how I feel about Hanahaki Disease itself- it's a good angst prompter but I've always hated how illogical it was. I mean, just because someone doesn't reciprocate your feelings you develop a horrifying and painful disease where flowers grow out of your lungs?! Yeah no, that's not going to fly here. So of course with my magical hand-waving technique of writerhood I've created limitations to it and a cause. 
> 
> I don't know if I implied it properly but my personal head cannon for Grifs doomed colony experience was a colony that was partially glassed (which is kinda like nuclear bombing from orbit but with heavy plasma) and then overrun with Covenant forces. That's how he was specifically exposed to the radiation and why he's the only one out of the gang who was susceptible to get it.
> 
> If you have any questions you can contact me at either of my Tumblrs: @agent-murica (my main) and @amateurscribes (my writing account).


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